


The Fourth Treasure

by Cirrostratus (Lenticular)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, M/M, scene i had rattling around my head
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:41:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28736664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenticular/pseuds/Cirrostratus
Summary: Morgoth had stolen four great treasures from Valinor.
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51





	The Fourth Treasure

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what's going on in this fandom, fanon-wise, 'cause I've just been noodling in my private Silmarillion pool for so long, so if this conflicts with anything popular, uhm... it is what it is, I guess?

“Follow me, boy.”

What was Maeglin to do; refuse? Deny the Bauglir? It was far too late for that - he had sold his soul to the Dark Lord, and so he followed out of the grim, shadowed throne room through the iron-wrought halls of Angband.

It would be worth it. Idril was worth it.

“Do you know,” said Morgoth as he limped forth, his rough voice ponderous, “that I have stolen four great treasures from the West?”

“I-- no, my-- Master,” Maeglin said, struggling to keep up.

“I did. Three are the Silmarils that sat in my crown, though only two remain. Do you know why  _ that _ is, boy?”

Maeglin pinched his lips together, stubborn in the face of the roiling fury in the Dark Lord’s voice. “Tinúviel of Doriath stole one,” he ventured finally.

“She did!” barked Morgoth, followed by a short, humourless laugh. “The lithe, little witch snuck into my court, cast her spells and snatched from me one of my four treasures!” He turned into a dark corridor, angling down into the cruel depths of hell. Distantly Maeglin could hear screams. “And do you know, boy, how she was able to do this?”

_ Did he not just say she was a witch, _ thought Maeglin and crushed that thought. It was clearly not the answer Morgoth sought. “No, Master.”

“A servant of mine let her pass,” Morgoth said. “A servant who should have stopped her instead yielded to her his fortress and free passage. He is named Mairon of old, though your people name him Sauron, the abominable--”

Cold fear danced in Maeglin’s belly, and he recalled the tales of his mother of the haunted dale she had traversed, thick with dark magic. Yes, he knew of Sauron, Gorthaur, _Thû,_ cruel sorcerer and Lord of Wolves.

“--only because they do not understand what he is.”

Maeglin glanced at the Dark Lord, at the fierce frown on his marred face. “And what is he, Master?”

“Why, the foremost of the Maiar,” Morgoth said. “Not in rank, no. But in power and wit and skill, he is the greatest of his kind. And so my kin named him Mairon, the precious, for he was dearer to them than most. And so I wanted him, for I want all things great and dear.”

They came at last to a cold and dismal room, lined with heavy steel doors and permeated by despair. Maeglin kept his mouth closed, lest he vomit.

“He is my fourth treasure,” Morgoth said. “I stole him, swift and easy, from under their noses, and still I consider that a fine theft. He is… precious to me.”

“But he failed you,” Maeglin said before he could think to not.

Morgoth nodded. “He did,” he said, “and yet he is no less precious for that. Open this door, cur!” The last was spat a groveling orc, rushing to tug at heavy steel.

Between the flickering, low brasiers and the cold, clear light of the two Silmarils still in Morgoth’s crown, the darkness revealed, huddled in that drear cell, a shape of dark hair and rags, shying from the light like an orc from sun. The cold granite walls gleamed wetly, and Maeglin could see carved on them thousands of little scores in neat rows; back and forth, up and down, a mantra of madness made in counting.

“Mairon!” Morgoth said, voice sharp, and Maeglin felt a sharp shock and foreboding pinch in his breast.

The figure unfolded slightly, ember eyes staring wild from behind tangled black hair. “Master?”

“Come here,” commanded the Dark Lord.

And Thû obeyed, weaving to his feet and stumbling out, only to fall to his knees before his lord. Trembling hands took the torn edge of Morgoth’s cloak and lifted it to the Maia’s chapped lips.

“A chance has come for your redemption,” said Morgoth. “A way to the accursed city of Gondolin. You will ride under Gothmog’s command.”

“Thank you, Master,” said Thû, his voice thick, and turned his eyes - cat’s eyes, slitted and ringed in fire - to the Dark Lord. “I will not fail you again.”

“No,” said Morgoth coldly, “you will not. Take him to be cleaned.”

The orcs descended, swarming the disgraced lieutenant, carrying away a form Maeglin would have thought too frail to belong to one of the Ainur, had it not been for the eyes. No born Child of Ilúvatar had such eyes.

The rabble and noise of the orcs faded, and but for those distant screams, silence fell once more on the dim, cruel prison.

“Yes. Precious to me,” Morgoth mused, low and thoughtful, his eyes fixed on where his servant had disappeared to. “If I am capable of love, I should think I love him.”

Maeglin looked at the dark cell, now empty, and did not speak.

Morgoth’s hand fell heavily on his shoulder, and the Dark Lord said, “If I am willing to punish him so, whom I love, for his failure, then imagine what I would do to you, who are nothing to me.”


End file.
